


A brief history of things we never said

by the_queenmaker



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Emotional Constipation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10766682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_queenmaker/pseuds/the_queenmaker
Summary: "They never approve of anything I do," Paulo replies, crawling into his lap and kissing him hungrily. A beat, and he pulls back to add quickly, “and I don't care what they think"--a blatant lie on both parts, Franco thinks, remembering how they had reached for him in the fervor of their goal celebrations and how adoringly Paulo had gazed at his new captain every time he thought no one was looking.But he appreciates the effort, nonetheless.





	A brief history of things we never said

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



The first time Paulo sees it, his eyes opens wide and his jaw drops to the ground with the mock-horror Franco will learn to associate with a feeling of great exasperation. It is, until that point, the first time he ever sees Paulo rendered speechless. 

“It helps me concentrate,” he offers without prompting. 

Paulo’s gaze slides pointedly from the nearly completed race track on the table to the piles of different Lego pieces (arranged by size, color, and and regularity of shape) shaped in neat mounts around the room, before coming to rest on the veritable mass grave of tiny Lego people in the corner of the room. 

“You can’t just play FIFA like the rest of us?” Paulo asks in disbelief. 

Franco tilts his head to the side. “I like to be challenged every once in awhile.” 

Paulo’s face contorts before settling on something that looks like he’s accepted a challenge Franco doesn’t remember issuing, and that’s the end of that until the player’s dinner right before the break for winter. Paulo’s present from the player’s exchange is a Disney castle set (four thousand pieces) accompanied by a small handwritten note: _un castillo para mi princesa_.

He hides his face, careful to maintain a neutral expression as Paulo relishes in the hoots that follow him, but then at the end of the night, Paulo snatches a glance at him and smiles knowingly.

//

Franco comes over the day after their final match of the season--and together, at Palermo. But Franco does not know that yet. Paulo’s house is a veritable disaster site, clothing stacked in piles, furniture askew, and small kitchen appliances (some still in the box) lined up against the wall.

"Going somewhere?" he asks.

Paulo closes the lid of his suitcase and studiously avoids eye contact. "Berlin."

"I see." Franco waits but when silence fills the space in lieu of an answer, he slides his backpack off his shoulder and rummages through it. "I was going to wait until--" a shrug "--but this is for you."

It's a Technic set for a car, two thousand pieces, all in black and white. Paulo clutches the box in his hands and remembers that it isn't only a badge and a city he is leaving behind.

"Don't forget me," he orders, eyes bright and sharp.

"Fool," Franco replies, tweaking his nose gently. "I could never forget you."

//

Paulo finds him after the final whistle blows, glues to his side like their shirts were still the same color, and whispers in his ear: "Take me home."

Just like that, Franco's traitorous brain races through every memory of every time Paulo has whispered those words in his ear, in that tone, until he's back to the very first version of himself, heart thumping in his ears, throat swallowing dry around his words as a dry hot flush burns its way from the pit of his stomach out toward the tips of his toes, his ears.

"Your teammates won't approve," he says later, after the doors had locked the curtains had drawn.

"They never approve of anything I do," Paulo replies, crawling into his lap and kissing him hungrily. A beat, and he pulls back to add quickly, “and I don't care what they think"--a blatant lie on both parts, Franco thinks, remembering how they had reached for him in the fervor of their goal celebrations and how adoringly Paulo had gazed at his new captain every time he thought no one was looking.

But he appreciates the effort, nonetheless.

//

"You should come here. To Turin."

Franco laughs.

"I'm serious," Paulo says, earnest.

"I know you are," Franco says quietly. He kisses Paulo on his lower belly, where injury has made him soft, and then lower, until Paulo is a trembling, whining mess who doesn't remember his own name.

//

Alvaro goes, and that's hard.

Paul goes, and that's harder.

"Were you sad when I left?" Paulo asks, somewhere off the coast of Ibiza, tongue loose from alcohol and too late in the night to think of consequences.

"Devastated."

"How did you get over it?"

There is only silence and the sound of waves crashing against the rock. For a moment, he thinks Franco must have fallen asleep, but when he glances over, he realizes at once that they're both too awake and too sober for this conversation.

//

_Sevilla????_

He never gets the chance to respond because in the next moment, his phone is ringing angrily in his hand.

"You're going to _Spain_?!" 

"They made the best offer," Franco says and bites down on his lip. Doesn't tell Paulo that Juventus were never in the race for him, not seriously, not even as a gesture to appease their newest crown jewel. Doesn't tell Paulo that he's glad they hadn't wanted him, because then he might have gone, and he could think of few things worse than sitting on a bench watching Paulo outpace him even further.

"I need to go somewhere that needs me," he says at the end.

That much, at least, is true.

//

He declares for Argentina.

The chance of a call-up from them is even less than another call up from Italy, particularly when you consider who is the incumbent in his position. Even so, when his mind wanders in a fanciful direction, he still sees Paulo beside him with a silver cup between them.

Everyone needs a dream to aspire to.

//

The Champion's League brings them back together, and while Turin is exactly as hostile as Franco remembers, Paulo is not.

"That is a terrible color," Paulo says cheerfully, nodding at the pungent orange-yellow of Franco's shirt as he shoves a bag into Franco's hands without pause. "This is for you."

"Hello Paulo," Franco says, shifting around his phone and wallet to free his hands. "It's nice to see you too. Seville is a beautiful city. I’m getting along great with my new team."

He goes on for a bit after that, enjoying the way Paulo's eyes roll into the back of his head and the way he waves his hands as though that will scurry the small talk along. When he finally digs the box out of the bag, he finds one of the classic brick sets, only five hundred pieces and no specific theme. It's intended audience, Franco notes, is four year olds.

"I love it," he says with complete sincerity.

Paulo beams.

//

"Franco--"

"Don't," Franco interrupts. Eyes sharp. Lips tight. Two spots of yellow in the corner of his vision and the afterimage of red swimming in his mind. Paulo is dressed in the suit of someone whose injury kept him off the bench, and Franco stares at the cut of his jacket, thinks how the tailoring fits him better than anything Palermo had ever offered, and how tired he is, in all the terrible ways.

"Go with your team, Paulo," he says, running his hand through his hair. "It's fine. Go."

Paulo follows him home anyway because he never listens to anyone. They construct the entirety of the Taj Mahal, six thousand pieces in a little over two days, before Franco finally allows Paulo to slide an arm around his shoulder and pull him close.

//

"Are you awake?"

"Mmph-no."

He pokes Paulo right in the fleshiest part of his side and relishes the indignant squawk that follows as Paulo's face emerges from under the blankets, scrunched with fury.

"Traitor," he grumbles as he burrows into Franco's side. "I should kick you out."

Franco hums in agreement. The faint light peeking in between the gap in the shutters is a muted blue shade, which means it's about two more hours before the sun properly rises, and another two hours after that before hunger drives Paulo out of bed.

He's fine with that.

The lull of silence that follows as they hover in the stage between dreaming and wakefulness is a feeling Franco has not managed to replicate in all the time they'd been apart. He sneaks a look at Paulo, whose face is smoothing over with the slackness of sleep and says, unwillingly, "I wish I could take you to Seville."

"Can't," Paulo mumbles, speech slurred. "Going sailing with Claudio."

"Ah," Franco says. "When is that?"

"Next week." Paulo hums. "M'all yours, for now."

 _And that_ , Franco thinks as the acid feeling in his chest intensifies, _is precisely the problem._

"Did you see the manual they posted for the truck? " he asks instead. "I bet I can finish it before you."

Paulo's smile curves against his arm.

//

_You don't have a chance._

_Give me two days._

fin

**Author's Note:**

> \+ Thanks to [@softluka](http://softluka.tumblr.com) for beta.
> 
> \+ Screenshots from [here](http://incredybala.tumblr.com/post/157219139906/when-will-these-kids-grow-up).


End file.
